You Are (more than) What You Eat

Pompous gut meatwad

It's a Saturday morning in 1984. You're ten years old and enjoying the finer things in life: watching a lineup of The Smurfs, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and Scooby-Doo on a sweet 19" Magnavox. During commercial breaks between scenes of Shaggy cracking the case of the seaweed monster, ABC airs a public-service announcement ostensibly to inform and educate the target demographic: unsupervised children feasting on Frosted Flakes while lounging in their He-Man pajamas.

Some of these PSAs featured Timer, a top-hatted meatball, perhaps named because there was limited time between Mystery Machine escapades for the network to clear their corporate conscience and broadcast something other than a Stomper commercial.  

One of Timer's more memorable episodes was a trip into the human digestive system, where he advocated for a healthy diet while filming on location somewhere between the epiglottis and the anal sphincter. He famously quipped, "You are what you eat, from your head down to your feet."

Despite the on-screen credibility of a talking meatball dispensing health advice from the inside of a duodenum, Timer was wrong.

You are what you eat? Please. I'd like to think that in 1984, having successfully survived one decade on this planet, I was more than SpaghettiOs® and Klondike Bars. Was I not at least the sum of my experiences and growth, both good and bad? Couldn't I change who I was?

Fast forward 38 years. I'm 48 years old and have been unemployed for four months. As long as I have been a working adult, my sense of self-worth has been inextricably tied to my employment. Ergo, without employment I must be without worth. 

Wrong, Timer, you pompous gut meatwad. Beacause I'm NOT what I eat. (I mean, maybe a small part of my forearm is built from Rice Krispie Treats.) I'm more than what I eat. And I'm certainly more than my job. Or lack of a job. My existence has not ended with my paycheck. And whatever future I choose, a job will just be the enabler to accomplish more important goals.

To my own surprise, in navigating this "between-jobs" period, I'm not miserable. I've filled free time with extra gym time in pursuit of some long elusive exercise goals. I certainly don't workout 40 hours a week, but my training is goal oriented, self directed, and results driven. So it fills my need for purpose and accountability. 

And I'm spending more time being a dad to the next generation of Saturday morning cartoon TikTok watchers.

One Xylem Fluid, Neat, Please.

Hellllooooo

It's the first day of October!  Happy New Fiscal Year, fellow US government employees!  FY18 is really going to be!  New Fiscal Year's Resolution #1: find new employment.  insert fireable screed on employer here

On this day we also celebrate International Day of Older Persons.  According to the United Nations, the IDOP (not to be confused with the IHOP, maker of the official Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity® Pancake of the IDOP) raises awareness of age discrimination in the workplace.  And as an actual Older Person on a job hunt, I'll take all the ageism protection I can get.

And finally on this day, we celebrate the return of my blog.  Like the cicada, after 13 years underground feeding on the xylem fluid of tree roots, I emerge to breed.  And write some stuff.  Stuff about my larvae, my mate, and my lifecycle.  I promise this blog will be as soothing as the thoracic vibrations of a thousand cicadas at sunset.  Thanks for reading.      

Test

Sibilance.  Sibilance.  Check.  Check.  This posted using some third-party Sino-Russian iPhone app.  Of course I needed to enlist the help of Russia to make this blog great(ish) again.

Smells like teen spirit

It is officially hot in Phoenix: 100 degrees and it is still April.  I love the heat, but I don't love the way the heat makes me smell.

I would not classify myself as an overly stinky person.  I've never been told I stink by anyone other than my wife.  And to be fair, she has the scent tracking ability of a bloodhound and the odor discernment of a truffle pig. 

This skill may be hereditary because my children have an odd fascination with stink.  They have a creepy habit of smelling my shoes and clothes immediately following the completion of a run.  And they don't just attempt to get a whiff of odor, they love to get their faces deep into my shoes and socks and inhale the heady aroma of sweat and feet.  Repeatedly.  Because they think it is funny.

And their critique of my manly fragrance following yesterday's 12-mile run?  "Daddy, you smell like cat pee."

Really?  I smell-checked my shirt and they were right.  Cat pee.  Or maybe cat pee mixed with windex, but either way, definitely heavy notes of ammonia.  What could this mean?  Usually, and this according to my wife, I just smell like dirt.  Dirt, like soil and dust, which in my opinion is preferable to the other b.o. classifications of butt, old person stink, or hot trash.

A quick Google search for "sweat smells like ammonia" revealed that I may:
1.  Have renal failure.  Impossible!  My kidneys were stolen from me in 1997 and sold on the black market.
2.  Have been a victim of cat marking by one or both of our cats.  Possible.  We are in a protracted turf war and I have (unsuccessfully) tried to mark our guest bathroom as my territory.  I refuse to cede.
3.  Be burning muscle for fuel while running.  Possible.  Running Doctor reports that eating more carbohydrates before a run could eliminate the ammonia stink.  Done and done.

From now on I will fuel with asparagus in an attempt to have my sweat smell like dirt again and my pee smell like vegetables.

So much better than Jazzercise!

This week, as part of an employer-sponsored health day, I participated in a high-intensity physical challenge that required far more discipline and determination than anything I have ever experienced.  No, not a Warriorspartanmudderzombiesurvior run.  Worse.  And by worse I mean more chafing (both nipples and crotch) and even more public humiliation  What could be more physically and emotionally painful?  Zumba.

The mandatory-as-a-condition-of-employment Zumba class was one of a few health and fitness demos offered in an attempt to help workers work on their pear-like physiques.

I immediately knew I was in trouble when the instructor donned a Janet Jackson style headset and said the only requirement was to have fun.  Fun is a sunny day at the beach.  Fun is launching model rockets with my children.  Gyrating my hips and shaking my groove thang is not fun. 

Why couldn't I enjoy the forbidden dance of fitness?  Because I am a terrible, nay, horrific, dancer.  Elaine Benes cuts a mean rug compared to my ghastly flailing.  And my dancing isn't helped by the fact that I am supposed to do exactly what the instructor is doing, except as a mirror image.  This may sound easy to those familiar with the concept of body coordination.  I am, however, as a coordinated as a manatee. 

My spastic convulsions did not go unnoticed by El Profesor.  Telling me to "hang in there" was just the final humiliation I needed to call it quits.  Truthfully, he could have been addressing the guy next to me after I merengued into him for the third time.

I didn't particularly care for the dancing, but what I found positively offensive was the dance remix of Taylor Swift's "Trouble".  Unnecessary and artistically insulting. 

At the end of the class, El Profesor pitched the goodness of Zumba as a "super fun way to burn fat".  The only burn I noticed was in my loins...burning to move in rhythm with the pulsing Latin beat.  Arriba!  Oops.  ¡Arriba!

How to protect yourself from airborne fecal matter

Yesterday there were some crazy winds here.  Crazy like trees knocked down, dogs blown into swimming pools, and planes levitating crazy.  Thankfully I completed my run in the early morning before the worst of the hard blowing commenced.  By 10 am, it was Kansas just before Dorthy vacated.

As an added bonus the wind kicked up an estimated 17 billion tons of dust, pollen, leaves, and landscaper business cards and sent it hurtling across the desert.  I didn't see anyone running yesterday afternoon and with good reason.  The air was thick with disgustingness.  It was all too similar to southern Afghanistan, except without as much airborne fecal matter (I hope).

If yesterday's air quality (think Beijing with cacti) were a regular occurrence here, I would probably find myself running with a respirator.  Commonly referred to as a "gas mask" or "meth cook's PPE", a respirator is designed to filter out pollution and poop particles before you breathe them in. 

Is it advisable or even possible to run while wearing a respirator?  Maybe and yes.

Although technically not a respirator, there are "sport" dust masks available to provide some protection against airborne pollutants.  Or you could get a 20-pack of dust masks at Home Depot for less than the cost of a single "sport" mask.  Not ready to make the commitment to air filtration by way of facial accoutrement?  Try breathing through your nose.  When run is complete (or mid-run) blow out the mess of goo collected in your nasal cavity.  Problem solved.

And I can personally attest that running in a full-face respirator is only slightly preferable to actually breathing airborne fecal matter.  While in Afghanistan I once (and only once) ran seven miles in an M45 mask.  I thought my face was going to liquify from heat.  But it was an interesting challenge trying to keep from hyperventilating. 

Three years ago, a motivated Devil Dog set the word record at the Marine Corps Marathon for running in a gas mask.  Apparently he has been surpassed by a few other masqueraders since his initial attempt and subsequent record.

So if you are a mouth breather, meth cooker, zombiephobe, or just allergic to ragweed, head down to The Surplus Superstore: Serving Paranoia and Paramilitary, and stock up on any variety of doomsday headwear.  Your bronchioles thank you.

Owww, my tight psoas.

I have this nagging lower back pain that is confined to my right side.  When I run it comes and goes, and can extend from just above my hip, through my butt, down into my hamstring.  The name of my injury/ailment/disease is ________.

Since WebMD has virtually rendered doctors obsolete, I have diagnosed myself, via the Thomas test methodology, with a tight psoas.  What the hell is that, word, which if I knew how to pronounce, I would repeat, you ask?

It's pronounced SO-us, and it is a muscle that runs from your lower spine to your femur, located inside of your pelvis.  One of its major functions is to lift the knee when running, so it can get used heavily.  Side note: quite the sacrum on Mr. Body Worlds in the picture.

So now that I have a pain in a muscle that I didn't even know I had, what to do about it?
1.  Eat more fiber.  Again, in this world without doctors, that just seems like sound advice.
2.  Stretch.  Do the Thomas stretch, named for Thomas Jefferson, who had notoriously tight psoai (yes, both of them were tight). 
3.  More stretching.  The kneeling lunge. 
4.  Warrior I yoga pose. 

And if you want to go beyond just the psoas and stretch the pelvic bowl, Dwight Schrute demonstrates the appropriate form.

 

 

Green leafy vegetables, stretching, and the internet.  See, doctors are worthless.